


4'33"

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Character Death, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-10 22:37:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20143135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: Sometimes silence says more than any amount of words.





	4'33"

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the Silmarillion. 
> 
> This piece was prompted on my Tumblr by elishaboltagon, who wanted "I should probably regret this, but I really, really don't" with Elrond, Elros, and Maglor, and family.
> 
> The title is from the composition of the same name by composer John Cage. For those not familiar with, it's four minutes and thirty-three seconds of absolute silence save for whatever environmental sounds there might be. Given the importance silence has in this fic, it seemed weirdly appropriate.

The plan had gone wrong.

Elros wasn’t particularly surprised by that, given the entirety of elvish history with plans as it had been presented to him, but it didn’t change the inconvenience of this particular plan going wrong in this particular way.

The plan, at least according to Maedhros, had been for Maglor and a small guard of Feanorian loyalists to deliver Elros and Elrond to Gil-Galad’s forces at a meeting spot that had been arranged through a tense exchange of messengers.

There had been a lot of things that could have gone wrong with that plan, most of them ending in another kinslaying.

There had not, at least, been another kinslaying.

Not yet.

Orcs had been the trouble this time, and while the entire party of orcs was now dead, the same could be said of their guard, and Maglor had been pushed over the edge of the ravine they’d had their backs too. It was steep, but not unmanageably so, and as soon the last orc had fallen, they’d scrambled down the sides into the frail protection of the slowly dying trees that were somehow still grimly hanging on.

Maglor was at the rocky bottom, blood speckling his tunic.

Elros hung back with a wary hand on his sword, just in case they weren’t alone as they thought, as Elrond checked over him.

“Broken ribs,” Elrond reported quietly. “At least two.” He didn’t comment on the other broken bones, probably because he knew even Elros would know what that sickening angle in Maglor’s leg meant.

“Nothing punctured yet, I don’t think,” Maglor volunteered in a quiet rasp.

“So we just need to figure out a way to get you back up to the horses,” Elros said. He eyed the steep slopes with grim determination. There was no way Maglor would be walking up those any time soon, but maybe if they made some kind of -

Elros froze. Elrond copied him a moment later as he caught his brother’s tension, and then understanding flooded his face as heard the noise too.

Horses were approaching.

There were voices too. Distance and vegetation muffled the noise, but that was definitely Sindarin.

_“What - “_

_“ - a trick?”_

_“Where - the princes?”_

So Gil-Galad’s people had shown up after all. Their timing left something to be desired.

If they took the horses, this was going to get a lot harder.

“Call out to them,” Maglor said, his hoarse voice barely more than a whisper and clearly not up to the task of doing it himself. “They’ll get you to safety.”

Elros and Elrond exchanged looks. Neither one of them had missed the you in that sentence.

The plan had always been to meet with them, but in the plan, both parties had roughly equal forces and the ability to ride away at speed.

Elros estimated their current top speed would be, at best, an agonized crawl.

And if they were found … At best, they would probably try to take Maglor hostage. At worst … Well, was it really kinslaying if it was an authorized execution?

Or if you left them perfectly alive, just - on their own, leg and ribs broken, at the bottom of a ravine they could not possibly climb?

They could call out. Get swept off to the Isle of Balar and all the relative safety it promised. They wouldn’t have to worry about the horses, then, or the precious provisions they carried, or the three days hard ride back to where Maedhros waited with the rest of their forces. They could be - rescued, he supposed, whatever that meant.

“Go on,” Maglor said, voice tight with pain. He tried to smile. 

Or they could stay here, silent, and pray their rescuers passed them by, and that Maedhros would send riders out so that they wouldn’t have to make the entire trek on foot with an injured man.

Elrond pressed his mouth into a stubborn line.

Maglor opened his mouth to try again, but Elros shook his head and pressed his fingers to his lips. He jerked his head at Elrond and nodded towards a place that curved inward in the wall of the ravine where they could wait and be almost invisible to all those overhead.

He should probably regret this, he knew. Should probably have to fight the temptation to open his mouth and shout out as loud as he could.

Elros had lost should twelve years ago somewhere between the fires burning Sirion and falling to sleep to the sound of a gentle lullaby in the comforting arms of the man who had burned it, so he just ghosted forward on silent feet to help move Maglor to what little safety there was left as the cries of the searchers rang out overhead.


End file.
